It is well to be careful, before visiting any of the Ghetto cafes, to acquaint yourself with rules and ceremonies. Otherwise you may unintentionally give offence and make yourself several kinds of idiot. I have never at any period of my London life been favoured with a guiding hand. Wherever I went, whatever I did, I was alone. That is really the only way to see things, and certainly the only way to learn things. If I wanted to penetrate the inmost mysteries of Hoxton, I went to Hoxton, and blundered into private places and to any holy of holies that looked interesting. Sometimes nothing happened. Sometimes I got what I asked for. When at seventeen I wanted to find out if the Empire Promenade was really anything like the Empire Promenade, I went to the Empire Promenade. Of course, I made mistakes and muddled through. I made mistakes in the Ghetto. I was the bright boy who went to a shabby little cafe in Osborn Street, and asked for smoked beef, roll and butter, and coffee. The expression on that waiter's face haunts me whenever I feel bad and small. He did not order me out of the restaurant. He did not assault me. He looked at me, and I grieved to see his dear grey eyes ... so sad. He said: "Pardon, but this is a kosher cafe. I am not a Jew myself, but how can I serve what you order? Tell me--how can I do it? What?" I said: "I beg your pardon, too. I don't understand. Tell me more." He said: "Would you marry your aunt? No. Neither may a Jewish restaurant serve milk, or its derivatives, such as, so to speak, butter, cheese, and so forth, on the same table with flesh. You ask for meat and bread and butter. You must have bread with your meat. If you have coffee, sir, you will have it BLACK." I said: "It is my fault. No offence intended. I didn't know. Once again, I have made an ass of myself. Had I better not go?" He said, swiftly: "No, don't go, sir. Oh, don't go. Listen: have the smoked beef, with a roll. Follow with prunes or kugel. And if you want a drink _with_ your meal, instead of afterwards, have tea-and-lemon in place of black coffee." And so, out of that brutal mistake, I made yet another London friend, of whom I have, roughly, about two thousand five hundred scattered over the four-mile radius. A HAPPY NIGHT SURBITON AND BATTERSEA _A SUBURBAN NIGHT_ _Oh, sweetly sad and sadly sweet, That rain-pearled night at Highbury! The picture-theatre, off the street, That housed us from the lisping sleet, Is a white grave of dreams for me._ _Though smile and talk were all our part, Sorrow lay prone upon your heart That never again our lips might meet, And never so softly fall the sleet In gay-lamped, lyric Highbury. Love made your lily face to shine, But oh, your cheek was salt to mine, As we walked home from Highbury._